


we took you right from your mother's womb

by dogparty



Series: see me bare my teeth for you [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Whump, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Serious Injuries, Short One Shot, Werewolves, references to vomiting, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogparty/pseuds/dogparty
Summary: John looks quickly to the right at the sound of hoof beats that press in then, hurried and almost panicked, can hear the animal wheezing as it runs. Bringing that sour smell with it too. And he has to quickly yank on Old Boy's reins to tug him out of the way as said horse rounds on the trail hard, blows past them in a wild flurry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay more wolf stuff. This one's been cooking for a while so I'm happy to finally get it up, another two chapter piece. 
> 
> Title is from "The Wolf" by Fever Ray

There's a scream that splits through the night, like a gunshot, snapping John out of from his sleep. So abrupt and sharp that he has to take a moment to simply blink and breathe, mind rattled, yanked violently from the warm depths of slumber by something deep and instinctual, responding to the ragged noise that has carried into his tent. Abigail is jumping from her own sleep at John's sudden movement, pushes herself up onto an elbow, dark hair tangled around her face.

"What?" She's asking, voice sleep rough and confused, squints up at John through the darkness. John doesn't answer her, sat up and still, listening hard. The noise, raucous howl, she couldn't hear it. Just far enough to be out of the range of human ears, but close enough for a wolf to make out clearly. 

It calls out again, much more quiet and desperate this time, and it has John lurching forward, kicking out of the bed roll and shoving his feet into his boots, duster over his shoulders. Grabs his gun from where it's set on the ground and pushes through the tent flaps, hears Abigail call sharply after him and then proceed to gently shush Jack as he starts to wake at the sudden commotion. 

He nearly bowls into Dutch, who had strode out of his own tent, can see Javier stumbling toward them, rubbing at his eyes. "What is it?" John asks, skin crawling and prickling uncomfortably. Listens hard for any further noise.

Dutch doesn't provide an answer; steps forward and looks hard and still to the North, to where the scream had wormed it's way through the trees that barricaded their camp, nostrils widen as he scents at the air. John tilts his head back and scents as well, but catches nothing fresh or poignant. Nothing other than the Earth, the horses, the gang. Small animals that scrabble through the underbrush and the smoke from their campfires. "A trap?" He murmurs in question, shifts in place. A quick glance around and he can see that the other wolves have risen as well and are gathered close, looking just as unsettled as he feels. Javier looks out into the trees, then back to Dutch, "what's going on?"

"Sounds like some fool got himself caught," Micah is saying as he sidles up, hands on his gun belt, dips his head to look at Dutch.

"Should we be worried about it?" John asks, looks between Micah and Dutch, mouth twisting into a frown. A wolf typically doesn't howl in such a way unless it's out of pure and last ditch distress, in loose hopes that another wolf may hear it and offer aid. It's a hard thing to ignore, a ritual so deeply ingrained that it practically runs through their blood. The thought of something so violent and terrible happening that it would cause a wolf to drop all entrenched pretenses of hiding from the world, it sends a hard shudder down John's spine. 

Micah slips closer, worms into Dutch's sight. "It ain't our problem," he drawls out. "We've got enough heat on us as it is."

Dutch finally breaks his gaze from the darkened tree line, turns around to face his nervous pack. "John," he orders, "and Charles. Go out there, see what's goin' on." 

John nods then, holsters his gun and steps back. Looks at Charles, who must have been awoken by the sound of them speaking. Shotgun holstered close at his hip, wordlessly he moves toward the horse hitches. John makes to follow, stops and turns to look at Dutch. "What do we do?" 

"If you see anything, don't engage." Dutch tells him, looks dubiously out at the trees again, eyes darting around. His stance guarded and stock still. "Keep your noses clean; just make sure there'll be no trouble for us."

Dipping his head again, John strides over to the hitches, where Charles had already gathered up Taima and Old Boy, their reins held in each of his hands. He holds Old Boy's reins out once John is close enough, then quickly mounts up onto his own animal. They spur out of camp hard and fast, weave out through the maze of trees, John's ears and nose straining to pick anything up.

"So what do you think?" Charles asks, following John as he takes the lead. The night is clear, warm, and the moon is a bright hole punched through the blackened sky, hazy blue light heavy and wide over the rolling hills of Scarlett Meadows, long wispy grass flickering with silver in the low breeze. They stir a group of grazing deer as they tear across the terrain, sending the animals scattering hard across the fields.

"I don't know," John admits, kicks his heels into his horse's flanks to drive him faster. "Like Dutch says, we'll just take a look."

"Is this a good idea?"

"Maybe not," he says as he pulls on the reins, slows down a bit as they crest over a low hill. Looks around and sniffs at the air lamely, grimaces at a new scent that carries on the light wind, sharp thing that stings the insides of his nostrils. Maybe something carrying out from Rhodes. "But a threat is a threat. And we don't take no chances."

Once they've slowed to a trot, John is scenting and listening again. He can't hear anything, nor can he smell anything other than that unpleasant odor, sharp and tinny. It's familiar but John can't quite place it. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, heavy awareness on his shoulders. John looks quickly to the right at the sound of hoof beats that press in then, hurried and almost panicked, can hear the animal wheezing as it runs. Bringing that sour smell with it too. And he has to quickly yank on Old Boy's reins to tug him out of the way as said horse rounds on the trail hard, blows past them in a wild flurry. 

Both John and Charles are frozen in surprise for moment, only a moment, before they recognize the horse. White flash of a thing. And it's rider, slumped over the beasts neck like a corpse.

"Arthur?!" John is yelping out in shock, face scrunching up at the horrible scent radiating off of him in waves. So thick and heavy that he can't even discern Arthur's own scent beneath it.

Charles is quicker to react, pushes Taima to catch up with Arthur's horse, grabs the lasso rope that's hung on his saddle and gives it a few swift whirls before casting it out. The rope cleanly swoops around the animal's neck, and she twists and brays out in surprise when the rope tightens in close, Charles yanking it in toward his chest to slow her down. Spooked to all hell, she responds more violently to the action than Charles had anticipated, rears hard and angry, throws a limp Arthur from her saddle.

"Shit!"

It's like a whip crack, and the second Arthur collides with ground he's writhing and bawling in pain, shout wrenched out ragged from his throat. Arching his back off of the ground and digging his bare heels into the dirt. "Sorry, sorry," Charles starts to placate, drops the rope and jumps from Taima, quick to place himself at Arthur's side.

John snaps out of his loose daze and hops off of his own horse, makes to join Charles but stops short when it feels like he's run into some kind of wall, stumbling and tripping over his feet. He coughs and recoils, lifts an arm to stuff his nose and mouth into the crook of his elbow. He recognizes the acrid smell emanating from Arthur now. It's more than one scent, a harsh mix of things that are hard to identify when swirled so finely together, but he can still make them out, just so. Those instincts, deep inside of him, know it well. Danger.

Silver, and wolfsbane. Pure and evil poison for a wolf. 

"God dammit," he's spitting and pawing at his face, the odors burning his nose and throat like fire, making his eyes water and sting.

The outburst from being kettled seems to have taken all of Arthur's remaining energy, for he's fallen limp and still on the ground, limbs sprawled. Breathing like his lungs have been shredded. Charles' hands are steady and careful as he prods for injuries, checks his pulse, murmurs and coos at Arthur to try and soothe the immense pain that seems to be consuming him. John inches forward, his throat tight. Moves as close as he can bare, tries to get a good look at Arthur. He looks... bad. Horrible.

Stripped to his underwear, the fabric of it over his left shoulder is blasted away, revealing ugly, bored open flesh. Any visible skin around the gore is filthy and red, festering with a clear infection and congealed blood. John should be able to smell the rot be he can't, hidden heavy underneath the silver and wolfsbane. He can't even smell the blood that soaks Arthur's union suit. There are several bruises marring his face, purple and black stains along his jaw, the ridge of his brow. Skin waxy and pale.

"Help me get him onto the horse," Charles is saying, carefully scoops an arm under Arthur's shoulder to prop him up, Arthur wheezing and jerking in pain at the abrupt movement.

John hesitates, his fingers twitch. "I- I can't." He's saying, bites his lip. Unable to look away from the ragged buckshot wound dug deep into Arthur's skin. Can see that Arthur's claws are curled out from his fingertips, teeth elongated and tapered into fangs, ears slightly curved into points. Like he's stuck between his skins.

"What?" Charles barks, shuffles Arthur's weight to lean onto his chest, tries to arrange him into a better hold. "John, help me."

"I can't get close!" John splutters, clears his throat and tries to explain. "It's- they used wolfsbane on him I can't-"

Charles scoffs, just a bit. He doesn't know all of the intricate details of werewolves; knows that wolfsbane and silver are the only things that can seem to crack their metaphorical armor. Hasn't quite been informed of all the small things just yet. But for now, it doesn't matter. Arthur needs to be taken care of, and fast. He doesn't waste any more time in debating with John, whispers into Arthur's hair, a hushed "sorry." And pulls Arthur's arm over his shoulder, moves to stand, wraps an arm over his hip. Wrinkles his nose at the smell of sweat and sick that clings harshly to him. Arthur cries out, head limp and neck bared. Charles whistles for Taima, who trots over to them nervously. Snorting and stamping her hooves.

John curses, and after some brief hesitation closes the gap between them, coughs roughly, rubs at his nose. He helps haul Arthur's near dead weight up onto the horse's back, as gently and quickly as he can. Grabs Arthur's leg and carefully pulls it over the saddle, braces a hand on his thigh to help Charles seat him on the thing. The second that Arthur is situated as well as he can be, John is stumbling backward; gagging wetly, blood dribbling out from his nose. He curls over, hands on his knees. Spits and heaves for a moment.

"That bad?" Charles asks, eyes on John. One hand on Taima's speckled flank, the other on the small of Arthur's back to keep him steady.

"Yeah," John rasps, shakes his head out. He wipes the blood from his chin and straightens up, clicks his tongue for Old Boy. "Wolfsbane, it's.. it's like a repellent and silver just.. burns. I can explain later."

Charles nods, hauls up onto his horse's back. Arranges himself behind Arthur and cages his arms around him to keep him from tumbling off in their haste, grabs the reins tight. "We need to get him back to camp." He says curtly, "get his horse." He then kicks his heels into Taima's flanks, spurs her off in the direction of their current home. 

John strides over and grabs the lasso rope that's still hung around the neck of Arthur's horse. "Easy girl," he says quietly as she dances uncomfortably in place, snorts and throws her head back. There's a dark red stain of blood smeared down her broad shoulder, it's not hers. And it smells toxic. He ties the slack rope tight around the horn of his saddle, mounts Old Boy and quickly drives him off, Arthur's horse whinnying and falling in line. Spurring hard into Old Boy's sides to catch up with Charles, John keeps a healthy distance between them, wants to be closer but simply can't. He keeps eyes on Arthur as he sits limply in front of Charles, arms loose at his sides. Bad feeling pooling in is gut.

"What _happened_ to him?" Charles is asking, yipping at Taima to move quicker. Chin over Arthur's shoulder as he stares hard and mean down the road in front of them.

"I don't know.." John mutters, looks to his white knuckled grip on the reins, takes a breath to try and calm himself. "Some 'hunters' musta gotten to him while he was out." It's on the tip of his tongue to suggest the O'Driscolls, but really? A mere day or so ago, Dutch had had that incredibly uneventful meeting with Colm, at least uneventful in his own words. Dutch had returned that evening, shaking his head, expression twisted up. In no mood to speak to anyone, even Hosea. Micah stalking after him like a fly on shit. 

There'd been no such 'peace treaty' as desired or discussed, but Colm wouldn't have been so bold as to make a move on them so soon after such an event. Would he? None of it added up, really. The whole meeting hadn't been so long ago; Arthur had even been there. He hadn't returned with Dutch and Micah after the fact, and later on that night, when asked off handedly where Arthur had wandered off to by Miss Grimshaw, Micah had lamely explained that Arthur had left before the meeting even ended. Sharpening that knife of his, sitting on the outskirts of the camp, bemoaning at how Arthur had apparently left them 'vulnerable' during the summit to go galavanting around the countryside. It had drawn John's ire, most things that Micah said tended to do that, but given Arthur's propensity to wander and disappear for days at a time, he hadn't even questioned it.

And now he felt like an absolute fool for not thinking twice.

John is not the cleverest of men nor wolves, but he suspects that it wouldn't be a far off assumption to believe that this was Colm's doing. The man, evil and cruel as he is, has no desire for peace. To end the bloody feud between himself and Dutch; what would he ever have to gain from stepping away? Hosea had outright said that it was a trap, and he was very likely correct.

Flicking Old Boy's reins harder against his neck, John drives on faster toward the camp, fiery anger beginning to burn in his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've yet to actually write any of these werewolf one shots from Arthur's perspective, he'll get his chance don't worry! Also taking a moment to clarify who is and isn't a wolf in this AU; the wolves are Arthur, John, Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, Uncle, Karen, Sadie and Lenny. Whereas everyone else is just human. 
> 
> Comments and the like are very much appreciated!
> 
> [tumblr](https://coyotebrush.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt inspired and decided to finish off this little fic tonight :)

Hunting werewolves was a lucrative business, as folk tended to fear any wolf far more than they would even the most notorious outlaw, the price on the head of a single beast was always guaranteed to fill one's pocket. When Hosea had been just a boy, he remembers his father retuning home late in the night, exhausted and often a little bloody, but with enough money to keep himself, his wife, and his child fed and comfortable for several months.

He had a book, Hosea's father, a near ancient journal of sorts that had been given to him by his own father. It had been rebound several times in it's age, given new covers, was filled with pages that had been stitched in. So overstuffed that it had to be tied shut with a small thread of twine. It contained every bit of knowledge on werewolves that Hosea's lineage had ever learned, and would continue to learn. On a cold winter evening, his sickly mother in bed, Hosea had been sitting close on his father's lap; the book open before them. Father reading aloud the passages written on the old, yellowed paper. "This will be yours, someday." He had said, "when I retire, and you take on our family burden."

At 12, he'd been taken on his first hunt. Tracking with his father for days, now hunkered in some thick shrubbery atop a hill that overlooked a small cabin. An old, decayed thing of miniscule size, could likely fit no more than a bed and a stove inside of it. The wood of it's walls covered in mosses and vegetation. Hosea had wondered, if these are beasts, why do they live in a home like regular folk?

"Where is it?" Hosea had whispered, squirmed uncomfortably. They'd been laying still for hours, waiting. The elk pelt that he was wrapped in heavy and warm over his body, special lotion to cover his scent thick and oily on his skin.

"Hours yet, maybe." His father said, "now no more talk. She can hear for miles."

Eventually, as early morning began to break, a woman approached the cabin. Dead deer slung over her shoulders, two small children pushed out from the door, rushing to their mother. She greeted them, ushered them back toward the house, and then went inside.

Hosea's father pushed a small notebook toward him after that, words scrawled on the open page.

"CLIMB ONTO THE ROOF, PLACE WOLFSBANE INSIDE OF THE CHIMNEY AND THEN SMOTHER THE OPENING. I WILL DISTRACT THEM."

Hosea nods, takes the small pouch of wolfsbane and the extra pelt offered to him, clutches them close to his chest. He moves deliberate and slow toward the cabin, nervous energy shaking his steps. His father moves wide around the front of the cabin, a special reed made to imitate elk calls ready in his hand.

Carefully, he climbs onto the low hung roof, heavy layers of moss and grasses padding his steps. His father sounds the reed, elk like bugle filling the small clearing and rolling over the hills. Hosea hunkers close to the small, stone chimney; face screwing up at the smoke that wafts into his face. Dumps the pouch of wolfsbane down the spout and into the fire below, quickly pulls the pelt over the opening and stuffs it inside.

Within minutes, there's a horrible retching from within the cabin below. The door is shoved open violently, warm light splitting through the darkness. The woman is stumbling out of the cabin on quick feet, the two children tucked under her arms. She falls to her knees, gasping and coughing, claws at her face. The children are screaming, crying, rubbing hard at their streaming eyes and bleeding noses. She freezes when Hosea's father steps out from the brush, silver laden rifle heavy and steady in his hands.

Immediately, she's pushing her children behind her, who stifle their own sounds of pain at the approach of danger. "You.." she wheezes, "you _can't_."

"I will," Hosea's father replies simply, hat low over his face. Dark shadow covering it like a veil. Hosea looks away, stomach flip flopping. Freezes when he makes eye contact with one of the children, pressed tight against his mother's hunched back. Eyes wide and wet, face illuminated by the light that floods from the cabin, looking up at Hosea like he's some kind of reaper, an Angel of Death. He may as well be. Hosea turns around, faces the hills and trees. Curls his knees up to his chin and locks his arms around them. Hears his father's footsteps as he moves, hears the woman snarl like an animal, unable to change into her other skin by the wolfsbane suppressing the wolf within her. Burning her from the inside out, making her limbs heavy and lethargic.

Hosea squeezes his eyes shut, buries his face into his knees and clasps his hands hard over his ears. There are three pops, clean, echoing loudly through the forest. Reverberating off of the mountains that tower around them. And under the muffle of his hands and ringing in his ears, he hears his father speak.

"Hosea."

"..."

"Hosea!"

He peels his hands away from his ears, looks over his shoulder, down at his father on the ground. "Come on down," he says, gestures. Hesitantly, Hosea removes himself from the roof with fuzzy feeling limbs, risks a glance to the gunned down beasts.

They look like wolves now, human skin melted away in death. The sight, wolves wrapped in soft bed clothes, blood bloomed over the white material. It makes Hosea's guts feel watery, bad. Dead in their nightgowns, wolves as they may be. The mother's long gray body partially curled over her tiny pups.

There are fingers under his chin, titling his head up, forcing eye contact with his stoic faced father. "Every second they live, they hide. Once they die, the illusion is gone."

He steps away from Hosea, approaches the dead wolves and pulls out a hunting knife, moves to cut away the clothing and skin the beasts. "Hosea, there are some evils that try their best to make themselves look good, and having the wisdom to snuff that kind of evil out comes at a price."

Three months after that, Hosea's father dies. Doesn't return home after a hunt, and he and his mother learn through a delayed telegram that his father's remains had been found. Ripped to shreds, scattered. And it's three years later, when Hosea is fifteen, that his mother finally passes. Sick her whole life, it finally caught up to her. He buries her, burns his old house down, and leaves those mountains behind.

From there on out he robs, steals, and cons his way through the West; doesn't think once about carrying on what his ancestors had started. He's kept the book, always buried at the bottom of his bag, underneath his belongings. It's remained unopened. It isn't until years later, that he's passing through a town that's seemingly plagued, that Hosea thinks of opening it again.

There's a caller on the corner of the street, screeching about a beast. Killed livestock, mauled a law man. Speaks of a reward, a handsome one. And Hosea, down on his luck and hungry, considers it. Considers it enough to approach the sheriff and take on the bounty.

He tracks the beast, uses long buried knowledge. Harvests wolfsbane and coats his bullets in silver, stalks through the trees with his gun heavy at his thigh. Down a deer trail, Hosea picks through the forest, heart dark and hangdog.

Then, there's a sound. A deliberate one, like the clearing of throat. Hosea turns, careful. And locks eyes with a beast, a beast in the skin of a young man. He's leaned with his hand on a tree, eyes glowing. "You're sloppy," the man says. And Hosea realizes that he's forgotten to cover his scent, closes his eyes, the weight of a self induced and inevitable death pressing down on his shoulders.

But the beast, the man before him, regards Hosea carefully. Curiously. In the low light, he looks intrigued. If he had wanted to kill Hosea, he would have done so already. Would have torn out his throat before Hosea had even realized there was a wolf near by.

This was how he had met Dutch.

Since then, he'd opened that old book many times, wrote down everything Dutch had ever told him about his kind. And now, he'd had it opened again, laid out on one of their tables, head in his hands as he pours over the information. Arthur crying out and writhing in his cot as Swanson tries to treat his grievous wound; thankfully their most experienced with treating wounds are human, the wolves of the camp are practically huddled around each other along the the outskirts to avoid the acrid scent of wolfsbane and silver and sickness.

His shoulder wound had been poorly cauterized, likely by Arthur himself, but it had to be reopened and cleaned out. The flesh festering and contaminated. 

Infection is not something that a wolf would be familiar with, being such strong and vital creatures. The only thing that could make a wolf vulnerable to such Earthly afflictions would be to push away what makes them different, to suppress them down into near human mortality with wolfsbane. An herb that, while not fatal to a wolf, weakens them to a state in which they can killed by anything that'd kill a human. Otherwise, the only thing that can kill a wolf is silver. Silver itself, works like a poison. Can be used as one; though a silver bullet to the right spot will do the job just as well.

The shot in Arthur's shoulder contained wolfsbane, forced his wolf nature away so that he would be subject to whatever torture the O'Driscolls saw fit to put him through. They beat him, roughly. His chest and stomach muddy with angry red and purple bruising, along his face as well, swollen and shiny. Dressing him out from his soiled union suit had been difficult, as moving him, just a bit, caused him to cry out and pull away. Barely conscious, he's fighting to shift, claws poking through his finger tips, teeth narrowed. But is restrained by the wolfsbane buried in his shoulder.

He smells of silver, according to John, but they can't find any other entry wounds on his body. Hosea suspects, by the near burned look of his lips, blood around his mouth like he's been coughing it up, that they made him swallow it. Not enough to kill him, the O'Driscolls had clearly wanted to keep Arthur alive, in great pain, but alive.

There's a heavy sigh over his shoulder, and Hosea looks up to see Dutch, bandanna obscuring his nose and mouth. "How is it going?" He asks.

Hosea shakes his head, "Miss Grimshaw is preparing some salt water to flush his stomach. Hopefully, it'll get any silver out. Swanson is cleaning his shoulder up. It's.. really infected."

Dutch nods, and even with half of his face hidden, Hosea can see his rage. It flashes bright in his eyes, narrows his brows down. "They're _dead_." He says, growl lining his voice hard. "I swear it."

Hosea watches him, silent. Thinks to question the situation, that meeting with Colm. How they were able to steal Arthur away right out from under Dutch's nose. None of it feels right, but Dutch's shock, when Charles and John had returned with a sick and brutalized Arthur, seemed genuine. The notion that Dutch would have ever knowingly left their boy in the clutches of Colm O'Driscoll has Hosea's stomach turning.

"How did this happen?" Hosea is asking grimly, watches Grimshaw hustle back over toward Arthur, pot of water in her hands. Forcing him to drink down all of that salt water should induce vomiting, force the poisonous silver out from his belly.

"I don't know." Dutch says, firm and still. He turns away, breathes heavily and pinches at the bridge of nose. "But it's not happening again, I promise you that."

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place!" Hosea is snapping before he can stop himself, he exhales heavily and faces Dutch, who's looking at him in mild surprise. "He was right there, with you. And you just let them take him?"

"I didn't-" Dutch starts, before he looks around and places a hand on Hosea's shoulder, tugs him to the outskirts of the camp, other side of his tent, facing the water. "I didn't know, Hosea. I swear to you on that. Do you honestly think that I would just sit back and let something like this happen to one of my own?"

Hosea's lip curls, and he looks to the ground. Bitter and angry, worried to all hell. Arthur cries out again, a ragged and harrowing sound. "I want to believe that you wouldn't, Dutch." He says darkly, "but given the circumstances I can't be sure."

Dutch places both of his hands on Hosea's shoulders, looks him hard in the eye. "Hosea, I didn't know. They can cover up their scent and.. and Micah."

"Micah?"

Dropping his hands, Dutch pulls away and looks over the water, moonlight pulsating along the dark black surface. "Arthur didn't converge with us on our way out, after the meeting. I told Micah to round back and he, he told me that he saw Arthur riding off." He looks back over to Hosea, pulls the bandanna off from his face, desperate expression falling over his face. "That's what he told me, Hosea. I promise, and, what reason do I have to doubt him?"

Hosea wanted to scoff, tell Dutch that he has plenty reason to doubt every single word that slips out from Micah's mouth, but his attention is pulled when he sees Susan marching up to them.

"He threw this up," she's saying, expression tight, holds her hand out for both men to see. There's a tiny chip of silver, nestled in her palm, gleaming like a tear drop. She grimaces and pulls her hand away once Hosea takes the little chip from her, lifts it up to examine it. "There.. could be more. The Reverend's finishing cleaning out his shoulder, should be wrapping it up now."

Susan sighs, crosses her arms tight over her chest and fixes her eyes on the dirt. She looks absolutely shaken. "He's in a real bad way," she says bluntly, "The Reverend says that.. he might not make it."

Dutch takes the bit of silver from Hosea then, sneering down at it, breaths hard out from his nose. Not caring that the tiny fleck is burning the skin of his finger tips; he stares hard and angry at it for a moment before turning and throwing it out at the lake as far as he can, enraged noise thundering from his chest. Susan flinches away, ever so slightly.

Hosea rubs a tired hand over his face, looks to Susan. "Thank you, Miss Grimshaw." He says, voice somber.

She nods, purses her lips and turns away, heads back toward Arthur's tent. He's quieted down now, but whether that's a good sign or a bad one is up in the air.

Dutch is moving then, begins undoing the buttons of his waist coat. Angrily throws the thing to the ground of his tent, bandanna and gun belt as well. He brushes wordlessly past Hosea, purpose and power in his strides. Claws growing out, flashing in the dim light of the oil lamp near his cot.

"Where are you going?" Hosea asks, once he notices that Dutch is moving toward the darkened trees, away from the camp.

"For a run." Is the curt answer, stilted and furious. Hosea can't remember the last time that Dutch wore his wolf skin; for all the pride he seems to take in a being a wolf, for all that's he worked to teach the other wolves in the pack that there is no shame in who they are, he changes skins the least of any of them. Always seems more than content to live out his entire life in the skin of a man.

Hosea does nothing but watch him go, picks his way over toward Arthur's tent. Grimshaw is nowhere to be seen, likely still ferrying supplies back and forth. Swanson is wiping sweat off from Arthur's face, he looks up and steps away once Hosea is close, his hands are slick with blood. "He's real sick," Swanson tells him up front, discards the dirty rag. "I cannot say what the outcome of this will be."

Grimacing, Hosea moves to the chair that Swanson had vacated, sat close to Arthur's cot. Only glances for a second at the soiled and bloody bandages piled on the ground, the pan filled with pink tinged vomit, blood diluted within it. Hosea sighs, leans over his knees and scrubs his hands through his hair, presses fingers over his mouth and looks at Arthur's slack face. He's sickly pale, sheen of sweat over his skin, brows screwed up in pain, but despite that he's fallen into a rest, fitful as it may be. He reaches over and pushes the dirty hair from Arthur's forehead, rests his hand there for a moment, feels the heat of Arthur's skin heavy on his palm before he drops the hand to lay over Arthur's limp wrist. "He's strong." Is all that he can muster up, throat tight. Eye prickling. He blinks hard and looks to Swanson, "thank you."

The Reverend merely nods, looks down at his bloody hands. "His wound has been cleaned, and we've given him as much medicine as he could swallow. With that.. poison out of him, he has a better chance of recovering but, I fear the damage may have been done."

Hosea nods, grim. He squeezes Arthur's wrist, settles back into the chair. 

"We'll just have to wait and see now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the happiest fic but we all know that Arthur lived through this ordeal! I'll probably write a direct follow up to this one that occurs during his recovery, stay tuned.
> 
> Comments and the like are very much appreciated!
> 
> [tumblr](https://coyotebrush.tumblr.com)


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